


Highway to Hell

by TheCrowleySpinoffSeries



Category: Supernatural
Genre: A Crowley series, Crowley Origin Story, Crowley rewrite, F/M, Gen, Multi
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-12-02
Updated: 2017-12-02
Packaged: 2019-02-09 19:12:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 13,500
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12894846
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheCrowleySpinoffSeries/pseuds/TheCrowleySpinoffSeries
Summary: Written by @roxy-davenport and @talesmaniac89Beta: @raspberrymamaWord Count: 9,714A/N: This is the pilot episode of the Crowley Spin-Off series but it is written in fanfic form first. Then once we’ve written all of season 1, we will write these in script form. Enjoy.





	1. "There's a Storm Coming"- Episode 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hello fellow Crowley girls, welcome. This is a Crowley spin off series, written by a group of writers who meet every week to discuss and work on the next episode. We have a Tumblr as well, @crowleyspin-offseries if you'd like to follow us there. Thanks for reading.

“Are you mad woman!?” The man’s voice was nearly lost to the furious roars of the thunder outside the barricade of wood and hay that was barely staying together after years of neglect. His own anger rolling off well-dressed shoulders in a way that was quite reminiscent of how the storm clouds had rolled over the distant mountains earlier in the day and signaled what was possibly the biggest storm the sleepy village had seen in many moons.

 

However, unlike how the barn protected the two of them from the storm, there was nothing to protect young Rowena from the anger of the man in front of her. The man she loved and whom she had mistakenly believed loved her too.

 

“It is true love, I swear on my life and the life of our child!” Rowena was unwilling to give up, on the man and on the conversation. Though her legs had long since given up underneath her as the first signs of the arrival of new life had been heralded through the pains in her stomach and back. “The babe is yours!” She gasped as pain flashed through her just as a new bolt of light brightened the violent scene in the barn.

 

The man, of a higher breed and class than the lowly girl resting in a bed of hay, was fuming. The rage visible on every part of his body as flashes of lightning lent aid to the few candles that lit the barn. Yet, Rowena’s own fury was not yet rooted into her heart, no the flames in her heart were still kindled with hope as she looked at the love of her life with a tired glow, but love did not always win.

 

“You are mad… Whatever has whispered in your ear at night is evil, and whatever fathered that child it was not me, nor human,” The man spat the accusations her way in a whisper so loud it broke the fragile heart of the woman who carried it within her chest. His words were meant not only to hurt and deny, but also to threaten. In Scotland in 1661, such accusations could mean the death of any woman. The Witch Trials were flooding the hills and fields on Scottish soil with the blood of maidens both rightly and wrongly accused of witchcraft and consorting with the devil. “If you try to say anything else, I will talk to the two elders who counsel my father. You and whatever abomination is in your stomach will not live long if I do.”

 

 

“That is untrue! You know I am loyal, love. Only you, only your whispers reach me, be it night or day,” Rowena’s voice was broken as the pain surged through her. Childbirth was indeed painful, since creation always demanded sacrifice. Yet, the additional pain of heartbreak was too much for the young red headed woman to handle as she finally raised her voice, becoming one with the storm outside. “You said you would leave her, be one with me, do the hand fasting with me in her stead,”

 

 

“And why, pray tell, would I do that?” The man laughed harshly from where he was standing; looking down on the woman he had deflowered and destroyed on the hay next to him. Their differences in position and lineage clearer than ever as his clean, expensive clothes and blonde hair proved him to be a different breed than the woman in rags with hay in her hair and blood on her thighs in front of him. “You are not woman enough for my house and name. You would be a disgrace; she, however, is not. If you wish to live, you best leave as soon as your spawn is born, and stay away.” His mocking tone and the loveless eyes were the final straw as dear young Rowena lost not only her innocence and the future she had planned for herself and young Fergus, but also her heart.

 

 

“Please,” Rowena’s voice was weak with pain, and only her hope was left whole in her heart as she used the final breath she could spare, before pushing new life into the world, on the man who owned her heart and soul.

 

 

“Disappear, or die,” The man spat back, turning on his heel to brave the storm instead of staying by her side as she risked her life for the life of his child. “Either way, I will rejoice,” He added as he reached the barn door. Throwing it open and leaving it so, as he stepped out into the sleet rains of Scotland’s coast.

 

 

“No!” Her breathless drawn out scream was a bolt of lightning, a feral, destructive storm of its very own creation, as it bellowed inside her and caused havoc on the good she had carried and protected with her love. Yet, though she wished to scream, to curse him or convince him to stay, to declare her everlasting love and her never-ending hatred, she could not do more than force out that single syllable. He was gone, and the babe was eager to get out. She was left to push, to allow the child of a man who despised her into the world. To give birth to a child she no longer wanted.

 

 

Everything in Rowena’s small world shattered as the storm raged on outside, howling through the gaps in the woods and the open door. The flashes of light showing moments ripped from time as Rowena fought for her life and the life of her unborn child. Rain blending with sweat, blood, and tears as the sky carried the storm inside, seeing the open door as an invitation and allowing its winds to fill the fragile space with roars backed with thunderclaps that mixed with the new mother’s sobbed screams of pain and loss.

 

 

The world succumbed to the fury of the storm both inside and outside the barn, as she gave birth to an unwanted child as an unwanted woman. Left alone in an abandoned barn by an uncaring man to bring new life into the world with a fury worse than any storm could ever hope to hold and no love left in her broken heart.

 

Fifteen Years Later

 

 

Fergus was known for daydreaming sadly when clients were there. He would wistfully look out the window and imagine better, imagine a world where he was in control, respected, feared even. And every time, the tailor was the one to bring Fergus out. He really hated his boss. Of all the people his mother could have sold him to, he was hardly the worse choice. Sadly there was worse.

 

 

“What the bloody ‘ell do ye think yer doing?!” the tailor roared. He tore the sketch that Fergus was drawing. Fergus sighed heavily at the man, suppressing the need to give him a massive eye roll.

 

 

The first few times he did this, Fergus would fight and scream and get emotional but there was no point. The man would do what he wanted. He owned the poor boy and he was drawing when there were clients present. He should be drawing in his free time, not like he had much of that. The sketches didn’t matter in and of themselves; Fergus had his imagination, his ability to transcend his squalor and humble beginnings by using his mind.

 

 

The tailor took in Fergus’s blank stare, un-amused at his silence, “Always dreaming of a better life? There is no other life. Yer sodding mother is not coming back. She left ye with me. Deal with it and stop dreaming. Ain’t paying for yer food and training ye for nothing. If ye refuse to do yer job, I can always throw ye out as the cumberworld ye really are.”

 

 

Fergus knew better than to respond so obviously, to the tailor baiting him. He just simply quirked his eyebrow as if to ask, “And?” Fergus would never say that to him but he could think it. The man never went through on his threats; he just said them for effect.

 

 

The tailor looked around Fergus’s workspace to make sure he found all the sketches. “None of this nonsense now. No more drawing or writing or looking at morbid things a mortician should look at it. We have customers. Time to live in the real world.”

 

 

Fergus went on autopilot, giving the next three customers a blank, vacant look as he took the clothes and either gave it to his boss or if the job was small enough, put it in the small pile he had to do himself. He never took their money; couldn’t be trusted apparently, so when it came time to pay, the tailor would always grab the money; his arm falling over Fergus’ entire body, effectively blocking him from doing anything.

 

 

Fergus had always found it a burden to remember; because with remembering, comes pain; hence why he imagined things instead. He didn’t have one happy memory in all his childhood save for the few times his mother let him be. He tuned out what that the tailor was telling him now for his daydreaming, yet again. This time there were no fantastical world, no happy endings; this time he went into the past. Fergus clutched a necklace his mother wore through his pocket. He would never take it out, lest the tailor break it.

 

 

It was the very necklace he tore off Rowena’s neck in supplication to not leave him alone. The events of the tailor shop faded away and he was back there as a child standing in front of his mother and the owner of the tailor shop.

 

 

Rowena looked around nervously, hair whipping around dangerously at the strong, cold winds around her. She pulled her shawl tighter around her shoulders to try and keep warm. There was determination on her face thinking at the time that this was the best option, the only option left to her. “I need you to take my son,” she said in a soft voice.

 

 

The tailor scoffed at her looking her up and down skeptically, “Yer son? Yer only 23?”

 

 

Rolling her eyes at the stupid man she replied, “Thank you for the clarification. Way too young to have a child. I know. I just can’t-. What do I know of how to be a mother? I’m too young. This way he learns a trade. It’s the only way. Please take him.”

 

 

“Take him?”

 

 

“Yes, take him, give him a skill or something, just take him from me. I can’t stay here anymore. I’m in a bad way and I need to leave. I will return for him when it’s safe.”

 

 

The tailor nodded his head, not wholly convinced by Rowena’s claims to return. “Well this isn’t no charity. What are ye planning to trade?”

 

 

“One pig.”

 

 

“One pig and I have to take on an eight year old? And provide for him for the rest of his life? Ye must be joking,” he said incredulously.

 

 

Rowena’s voice sounded strained, “I’m 23 years old and you’re hustling me?”

 

 

The tailor shook his head, clearly not liking this deal one bit. “A naked eight-year-old even. Is he even right in the head?”

 

 

Rowena was livid. She had to make this work. There was no other choice. “Fergus! We’ve been through this. Put on some clothes!” She whispered to him, “Stop embarrassing me.” Stepping away from Fergus a bit, she added, “Forgive the poor lad, he’s a little troubled but the deal still holds, yes? You can’t fault a boy for a little folly, can you?”

 

 

“Troubled. And ye want me to take him as an apprentice with one pig!?”

 

 

“Two.”

 

 

“Three. Final offer or ye can take the child with ye, which I would greatly appreciate.”

 

 

Rowena desperately tried to make him see reason, “I thought we were friends.”

 

 

“Maybe at one point. There’s talk that yer a witch. The witch trials have come to Canisbay and now yer leaving? Not possible it’s simply a coincidence. The villagers are at yer house now aren’t they, so I think you want to finish this as soon as possible? We’re out in the open in a field. How long will it take for them to get here? Yer choice.”

 

 

Rowena growled angrily at the man, wishing that she could use her magic on him.

 

 

“Fine. Three pigs,” she said through gritted teeth and nearly shoved the lead for all the pigs into his hand. She rolled her eyes at the tailor. “Stupid git,” she muttered. She bent down to little Fergus and plastered a smile on her face as she said gently, “I’ll be right back OK? You just go with the man and I’ll pick you up when it’s safe?”

 

 

Fergus scowled, looking at her confused. “Mommy,” he cried out, holding his hand out to his mother. He tugged on her necklace hard, hoping that he could pull her back to him but the necklace broke in his hands and she moved away anyway.

 

 

“I’ll be back,” she said matter-of-factly as she walked farther away from her son.

 

 

Fergus called after her, his tears falling down his cheeks as he watching his mother leave. He tried to run after her but the man caught him. He wanted to ask her why. Was it because he went naked? Was this a punishment? He promised never to do it again.

 

 

“Stop that now. She sold ye to me and I will not have an apprentice of mine crying. It’s un-masculine. Stiff upper lip. She said she’d be back, so she will. Mothers don’t lie.”

 

 

Fergus stared at the tailor, not sure if he could believe him but definitely wanting his arms away from his body. Fergus stopped struggling and the man let him go. Why would she leave him with this man of all the men in the village? The man held a neutral gaze on his face. The tailor knew she would never come back but there wasn’t any sense telling the boy that. He grabbed the boy’s hand and led him forward, the man’s other hand going to the lead on the pigs. Fergus held his hand looking down at the ground all the way to a large building with a sign on it, Atchison Tailoring, his new life.

 

 

“Forgive him. He’s a bit slow,” the tailor said, as he slapped Fergus hard on the face. “Sometimes he needs a firm hand to draw him out of wherever he goes. His mother gave him up ‘cause he was simple.”

 

 

Fergus was seething. He wasn’t simple and his mother was coming back! The customer’s angry gaze shifted into a gentle pitying one. The client spoke slowly as if Fergus was actually simple. “Poor thing. I just need a simple thing done, dear. Just need someone to sew the ends of this frock for me. I don’t how I did it but I tore it pretty badly.”

 

 

Fergus nodded at the customer looking through her, not really seeing her. He learned to not really be present in the moment and just let things happen around him. He smiled mechanically at the customer and took the frock, ignoring the angry looks that the tailor gave him. He heard words like, “Fix it now,” and something else but he blocked out all unimportant words. If the tailor wanted him to fix it now, he would be more than happy to oblige.

 

 

Fergus took a piece of dark brown thread and slowly sewed the frock up. The very act of sewing made him calm. He could feel the anger at his surroundings fade away. Everything else around him was quiet and it was just him and this cloth. He focused on the feel of the frock and the simplicity of the act. He could fix this, handle this. He felt powerful fixing things that were broken. The whole time the tailor stood behind him and watched him, breathing down his neck but Fergus did his work undeterred. Let him watch, Fergus was a brilliant tailor.

 

 

Fergus was busy fixing the tears in a length of low quality cloth that the tailor had him work on to make it seem as if it was of higher quality when the door opened. The young boy didn’t take his eyes off of the cloth when he heard the by then unmistakable sound of new customers. Electing instead to ignore the new customers and let the tailor handle them when he returned to the front of the shop from where he was getting people’s orders ready. He decided to keep his eyes and full attention on the needle and thread going through the material in that nearly hypnotizing way that could bring him out of his miserable life and into a better one with every dip of the needle.

 

 

Yet, the customer did not seem very pleased with the thought of being ignored by a mere apprentice. At least that was the thought that first reached Fergus’ mind as he heard the small feminine cough for attention in front of his work desk.

 

 

Frowning at the piece of cloth, he reluctantly put it down with barely veiled annoyance before looking up. His own spiteful look faltering as he was met with kind eyes and a warm smile. A rarity in his life.

 

 

The woman was well-dressed… Too put together and coated in beautiful materials to be a servant, a handmaiden or any of the usually lower class clientele of the tailor’s small shop. Her hair, as black as the night during a new moon, looked as smooth as silk and was held up in place with a series of intricate pins. She was, for the lack of a better word, beautiful.

 

 

Her warm smile and friendly posture had been enough to shake up young Fergus, who normally only saw pity and disgust in the eyes of the tailor’s customers. Causing him to momentarily not notice the younger girl, dressed in equally lovely garments that stood two steps behind the older woman. A daughter perhaps, or possibly a confidante or young ward.

 

 

She looked to be about Fergus’ age, and her beauty easily rivaled that of the woman who had first tried to get his attention. They were a study in contrasts, like what he at times tried to do in his drawings. Where the older woman was smiles, dark hair and the polite, careful warmth of a fireplace. The young girl seemed scared, her lips pressed together into a thin line, and her delicate features half hidden between wild curls of sun kissed hair. Moreover, unlike the older woman’s carefully crafted warmth, she seemed to give off a heat powerful enough to awaken some age-old animal instinct in the young lad. The need to run from the perceived forest fire that followed the mix of furious flames and slumbering ember bubbling up in his chest as he finally found his voice.

 

 

“May I help you ma'am?” He knew better than to show such a well-bred lady anything but the utmost politeness and respect. If he did, he could only expect a flogging later. The tailor saw people as money, and this woman was all gold, pearls and shiny gems.

 

 

Lifting his hands from where they’d been resting on top of his needle and thread and straightening his back he stood from his seat to face the customers. For once hoping that the tailor would make it back quickly. Fergus never really had the knack for polite conversation in refined company. He tended to speak before thinking, which was frowned upon when conversing with someone of higher breed. The rich and beautiful normally tended to only say about of fraction of what they thought.

 

 

“Fergus? Wee Fergus, is that really you?” The woman’s voice was smooth and soft, like the finest silk or the feel of the sun on your bare skin. His name on her lips sounded like a precious secret and, for a moment, he was completely enthralled by her. Therefore, it took him a second to get his wits about him enough to formulate the question that was nagging at him to come out.

 

 

“How… Apologies, I mean, may I ask how you know my name?” The polite English tone sounded foreign on his tongue, but he would rather deal with the uncomfortable, stiff words than a sore backside and swollen joints if the tailor caught him speakin’ common speak to someone as refined as the lady in front of him.

 

 

Yet, as the woman with the black hair spoke up, all thoughts of floggings and polite speech went out the window. Her words so seemingly unreal that Fergus found himself wondering if he had somehow gotten lost in a daydream without even noticing. He did tend to do that when doing menial tasks.

 

 

“Forgive me, my name is Isla, Isla Coutts, I am a dear friend of your mother,” The woman, Isla, said as she smiled at him, somehow not bothered by his wide-eyed stare and possibly gaping maw, as he looked at the woman who he was then sure must have stepped right out of one of his daydreams. Her name, meaning queen, suiting the woman who ruled over information Fergus so sorely needed perfectly. “And this, this is my daughter, Maisie.”

 

 

“Lady Coutts, Miss Coutts,” Fergus did his best at giving the women a bow like he had seen men on the streets do, but his stiff muscles complained and groaned as he did, making him look more like a court fool than the knight he envisioned. “How may I help you?”

 

 

“I must confess, dear wee Fergus. I did not come here for fabrics or gowns, not truly. I heard you were here, and I came to bring you home with me,” If her voice, as soft and tempting as the milk and honey Fergus had seen other kids enjoy, had given him a warm feeling for once in his fifteen years, the pity in her eyes froze it quicker than frost killed the wheat fields. Her look easily warping from the surprised and happy look that had been a first for him to the much more familiar and hated look of someone looking down on him.

 

 

That, paired with the wide eyed look the younger girl, Maisie, was sending him as she shook her head and made her yellow curls dance in the weak lamp light, easily made him drop any pretenses of politeness, damned be the flogs and belt lashes. He detested it when people looked down on him, treated him like an unwanted child, an unlicked cub. He would be greatness personified. He was sure of it. The small village just didn’t know it yet.

 

 

“I am working here to learn a trade, and I am in no need of your pity,” Fergus said, his words still those of an Englishman though his tone was as cold as an executioner in front of a witch burning fire. “Unless you wish to purchase something…”

 

 

“Your mother would be happier if you came with me, it would put her mind at ease,” The woman crooned as kept her eyes, unflinchingly on Fergus. Somehow not caring, even though he had gone against conventions with his less than friendly tone to someone who outclassed him by far. “She misses you dearly,”

 

 

Fergus didn’t need Maisie’s fervent shakes of her velvety curls to catch the lie in the older woman’s words that time. Clearly she had noticed his earlier reaction to his mother’s name. A mother he still longed for, sure, but that he would find himself. This woman, with her black hair and what now to Fergus seemed to be raven-like features, was in no way a friend of his mother. He took pride in his ability to read people, and she, seeing him as just a stripling that was easily fooled, was an open book when she tried to push.

 

 

“I’m sorry, my mother offered my services to the tailor, I cannot just leave him,” He said, already tired of the woman’s games, though he could not fully quell the doubts in his heart about whether or not her words held any truth or only pretty lies.

 

 

“Fergus!” The tailor’s rough voice made the young boy stand at attention, like a guard watching the gates for dark spirits and wandering witches at night. “Sit down lad and keep at the work,” The man grumbled, his words slurred with tell-tale signs of alcohol. As usual, the tailor had most likely left much of his work undone to dip into his personal arsenal of liquid amnesia. Which meant Fergus did well in following orders for once, unless he wanted the pretty young lady behind the woman with the empty words to see him have his hide beaten.

 

 

Sinking back down into his chair, he for once hailed the tailor’s arrival as he refocused, once more, on the needle and thread between his fingers. Yet this time he only pretended to disappear into his work as his eyes found Maisie’s and his ears perked up to catch the conversation between the tailor and Lady Coutts.

 

 

“What can I help you with today ma’am?” The tailor’s drunken slur was sweet like honeysuckle yet sickening like the sickness that had killed half the village a few years back. Making young Fergus’ jaw twitch as he kept from visually showing his displeasure at the man’s tone in fear of an ear lashing or worse once the customers, if they could even be called that, left.

 

 

“I’m not here for your wares tailor,” Unlike the warm and friendly tone Lady Coutts had taken with him, her tone was cold and sharp as steel when directed towards the tailor, not even bothering with niceties as she nearly spat his profession back at him instead of using a title or the name on the door. “I’m here for the boy… Rowena’s boy,”

 

 

“Rowena asked me to take care of the boy many moons ago, so that’s what I am doing,” The tailor’s words were still coated in that sickly sweet politeness and slightly slurred. Yet, much to Fergus’ surprise, he didn’t seem willing to just hand him over to the woman. Which, if Fergus was honest with himself, had more to do with his steady hands still untainted by the demons of alcohol and his smaller, thinner fingers than any love held for him by the tailor.

 

 

“If yer in need of any bairn a we’an would probably do better, this ‘un is slow, not good for running errands,” The tailor added. Though Fergus couldn’t tell if it was the alcohol that had made him forget Lady Coutts specification that it had to be him, or if the tailor willingly let the memory of her words leave him.

 

 

“She would want…” The rest of the raven haired lady’s words were lost to Fergus as young miss Maisie stepped forward. Taking advantage of her mother’s argument with the drunken tailor to come closer to Fergus’ work station she leaned in, close enough for him to smell the sweet smelling soap in her soft hair as she spoke quickly. Her whispered words carrying an urgency unlike anything else young Fergus had ever heard in his life.

 

 

“It is dangerous, no matter what you do, stay put… Mother… Mother is no friend of yours,” Her voice was softer than her mother’s and warmer, though the warmth came from fiery desperation that shone through her eyes and every nerve in her body as she spoke. And just as soon as she’d spoken them she stood back up straight and watched her mother’s confrontation with the wide eyed look of a bypasser watching an awful accident play out in front of innocent eyes.

 

 

“You will regret this,” Lady Coutts nearly spat the words at the tailor, the refined woman from earlier nowhere to be found as she seethed with barely contained anger. “I’ll have you swallow your words and cough up again the harsh truth soon enough.”

 

 

With that she turned on her heel, ignoring Fergus and waving lazily at her daughter to follow her as her silky black hair whipped around her like the ends on a cat o nine tails whip. As he looked over to let Maisie grace his eyes once more before she was pulled back up to a standing position, much above his; he just barely caught the words the young girl was mouthing silently before hurrying after her mother out of the shop.

 

 

Though he couldn’t be sure, the light in the room was weak once the sun set and rested for the night, it had looked suspiciously like words that Fergus never would have used to describe the older Lady Coutts. Yet, words that some ancient part of him, something deep down and unexplored, still believed.

 

 

Mother is dangerous.

 

 

______________

 

 

Maisie didn’t like how things were left with Fergus. The boy was in trouble, way over his head and he didn’t even know it. There wasn’t any way she could have warned him properly before, not with her mother and the tailor present; too many prying eyes. She’d have to go back to try and save him.

 

 

Maisie watched as a pretty brunette woman came up to her mother. She recognized this woman from one of her mother’s weekly parties. Maisie saw them every so often, whispering Latin and holding hands when they thought Maisie was away. Her mother spoke quite highly of this woman but embarrassingly, Maisie couldn’t seem to remember what her name was and more importantly whether she was a witch as well or just very close friends with her mother. Isla has been known to have quite a few confidants, so this woman could just be a friend. Latin could just be their tongue of choice for secrets. The only thing Maisie was sure about was that her mother always spoke a long time with her, long enough for Maisie to speak to Fergus and get back. This was Maisie’s moment.

 

 

She would have to act fast and speak even quicker when she got to Fergus but how could she get away clean? Her mother was of a certain class and her daughter reflected that class so she would have to be excused, she couldn’t just run off. That would be rude and her mother would never let her tarnish her reputation.

 

 

Isla was prideful so the plan would have to speak to what she was prideful of, her magic. Her mother would overlook the obvious con if Maisie spoke about magic. The tailor shop was near the forest where Maisie could seemingly gather ingredients for her mother and be a dutiful daughter in the process. Or, so it would look on the surface. She wouldn’t have much time with Fergus but hopefully she’d have enough.

 

 

Maisie waited for a pause in the conversation. It would be rude to interrupt them now while speaking and she didn’t particularly want any lashes for being what her mother would describe as “disobedient.” The store would be closing in about ten minutes though. Maisie’s heart felt like it was beating out of her chest as she waited for an opening.

 

 

When she found it, she kept her voice soft as she supplicated her mother for approval. “Mother could I play over by the woods? I can pick us up some lavender for… the house. They always make the house smell amazing. Don’t they, Mother?” the girl inquired, knowing her mother would know exactly why they needed lavender. She wasn’t sure this friend was a witch so discretion was always better than angering her mother. Her mother was a dangerous woman and it was best to go along with what she wanted and what she expected of her daughter. And the biggest rule was, don’t discuss witchcraft with outsiders.

 

 

Her mother stared at her as if trying to gauge whether the girl was lying or not. Isla saw the girl as a tool, a vessel to be used to help her reach her full potential as a high priestess. It was unlikely that Maisie was smart enough to fool her but all the same she regarded her daughter with careful eyes. After some time her face changed into an air of arrogant frustration. She waved off the girl as if she were an insignificant annoying little thing. Maisie had unduly bothered the conversation but she did it in a respectful fashion equivalent to her ranking, so Isla wasn’t as mad as she could be. “Clever girl,” Isla thought.

 

 

Maisie bowed to them both and ran off. She would have some time now to talk to the Fergus but she had to be quick because she needed to have enough time to run into the forest and pick lavender. On the run over, Maisie tried to think about what she would tell Fergus.

 

 

Maisie made it to the shop in under a minute and looked into the window seeing Fergus by himself. The tailor must be in the back – perfect. She opened the door slowly so the chime didn’t go off as she entered. She tried to walk in as quietly as possible but her large poofy dress shuffled while she walked, making an awkward whooshing sound.

 

 

She saw that Fergus was entranced by his tailoring work and didn’t see her. He seemed so focused and relaxed while he worked. Maisie half envied his ability to feel that amid everything happening around them.

 

 

Maisie checked again for the tailor but he was gone or at least not in the immediate vicinity. She slowly sidled up to Fergus. She didn’t want to frighten him by any means so she gave a weak cough as a signal that she was here.

 

 

Fergus put down the petticoat he was working on and slowly, angrily looked up until he noticed who it was. This was the shy girl no older than he was who stood behind her mother and tried to warn him.

 

 

His face quickly changed from one of anger to one of confusion. Surely if she was here, it wasn’t for a social visit. This time, he got a good look at the girl as she stood before him, nervously shifting from foot to foot. Her blue eyes pleaded with him to listen to her. She had a rare beauty to her, such gentle eyes and a beautiful light complexion with freckles peppering her face in just the right way. When the light hit her blonde locks, she looked almost angelic. Her clothes fit as if they were sown onto her body in gorgeous shades of blue that brought her eyes out. It was surprising that Fergus found himself so focused on this girl since he never found any other girl his age, appealing. He was much more interested in daydreams but she, she had caught his eye.

 

 

Maisie whisper yelled to him, pulling him out of his reverie. “Fergus, we don’t have much time. I only have at most a few minutes. I just wanted to come to you to warn you about what my mother said.”

 

 

“Warn me? I’ll have you know I’m not as fragile as I look. And I have no plans to leave with her. My mother wanted me to learn a trade, not go off with one of her friends. Your concern is touching but I will be fine. I would prefer to get to know you instead.”

 

 

Maisie rolled her eyes at him. “This isn’t a game. Put aside your male ego and your fondness for a moment.” Realizing her slip at being so forward, much less to a male of a lower class, she looked down at the ground. “Forgive my boldness, sir, but I must warn you and I pray that you heed my warning. My mother does not mean you well. There are things you don’t know. Things I can’t divulge in the time we have. A storm is coming to Canisbay, Fergus, and my mother is at the forefront. If I were you, I would run or learn how to fight. I can sneak out to see you and teach you all I know. All the times my mother thought I wasn’t listening but I was. I always am. I wrote down every spell and incantation. Magic exists Fergus and only through magic can you ever be free.”

 

 

Maisie heard her mother calling for her from a distance. Her mother usually spoke longer with the brunette. Was this a test to see if she was lying? Maisie had to get to the forest now.

 

 

Maisie turned back to Fergus, speaking to him in a panicked voice. “Is there a back way out of here? Please tell me there is.”

 

 

“Maisie where are you?!” her mother bellowed.

 

 

“Please. If she finds me here warning you, I honestly don’t know what she’ll do.”

 

 

The pleading in her voice was evident. Maisie was shaking with fear which shook Fergus. He knew fear from dangerous parents; he lived that reality himself. It hurt him to see her so frightened.

 

 

Fergus got up so fast from his desk that his chair fell over onto the ground. He heard the tailor stirring in the back. He grabbed the girl’s hand and felt a surge of warmth at the touch but now was not the time to speak of such things. He grabbed her hand and pulled her through the back. They could hear voices behind the tailor’s office some sort of drunken argument, possibly with himself. The tailor was about to open the door when Fergus reached for the back door and nearly shoved Maisie out.

 

 

Maisie looked back at Fergus with a worried gaze, just as the door to the tailor’s office slowly opened.

 

 

“I will see you again, Fergus. Be careful. Please.”

 

 

And with that Maisie ran into the forest not looking back. Maisie stayed low, ducking under bushes and low hills to avoid her mother’s gaze. She picked lavender, thistle and rosemary for her mother as quickly as she could. Her mother never knew but Maisie had memorized this exact forest needing an escape from her mother’s angry tirades. So Maisie knew exactly where the herbs were and how to find her way back.

 

 

Maisie slowly walked closer to where her mother was so she would notice her. Her mother did and grabbed the girl’s arm roughly.

 

 

“Where were you?!”

 

 

“I was off that way gathering herbs and the like for your spells mother. I didn’t think it best that I should hear your sensitive conversation. I am to help you as you see fit. Meddling in private conversations is a horrible trait for any young woman. While I was here, I got rather distracted and enjoyed the freedom of being able to be near nature. I feel calm here and I regret to say that I fell asleep under a tree. I must still be tired from that powerful spell last night. I didn’t mean to anger you mother. Forgive me.”

 

 

Her mother smiled, not being able to see the lie. She released the girl’s arm that now probably had a bruise on it. “My sweet girl, of course you’re forgiven. I sometimes forget your fragility. No matter; you’ve collected herbs and you’ve been such a good girl. Come now child, we have another spell to do. I’m glad you rested up, you’ll need it.”

 

______________

 

 

The tailor opened the door abruptly, nearly stumbling into Fergus. “Yer still here boy? I would have thought ye’d left by now? Why are ye still here? And why are ye hanging around my office? Are ye spying on me?! Go on home. I can close up myself.” He nearly growled at the boy.

 

 

Fergus didn’t need to be told twice, he was only too happy to leave. What Maisie said and the fear in her eyes really shook him. He placed the dresses that he still needed to work on in a pile, in the corner and quickly closed up his station. He left through the back door just as he heard a jingle at the door. The tailor could handle it, they were closed anyway. No sense in him going back to help the angry drunk. Fergus walked quickly through the forest to his small house.

 

_______________________

 

The small bell above the shop door chimed again shortly after Fergus’ departure. Signaling a new arrival to the store though the tailor didn’t even bother looking up to see whom it was before he spoke. It was late, customers would all be at home having supper and putting their children to bed, so there was only one likely culprit for the chime in the tailor’s mind. His eyes stayed focused on the ledger in front of him as he squinted through the alcoholic haze to try and make sense of the notes for the next day’s orders. The narrowing of his eyes making the aging and weather worn man appear even older as it deepened the lines and ridges in his face formed after years of a life others oft considered wasted.

 

 

“I thought I told ye to go home lad,” He barked in the direction of the door as he tried to interpret a scribbled and hastily written order that seemed to be of some import. “Not one to follow orders are ye? Daft boy,”

 

 

“Ah, wee Fergus… I saw him scurrying off only moments ago. It seems you have underestimated the wee boy’s ears,” The feminine honeyed voice was enough to make the tailor finally look up to meet the eyes of Lady Isla. Back yet again and acting as if she somehow knew a secret he did not.

 

 

“We are closed. Night has fallen. If ye wish ta order something, come back at daybreak,” The tailor deemed it unnecessary to coat his words in sugar this time. The woman in front of him was no customer. Only those who lined his pockets with coin got to see him at his best behavior, status or none. His professional, friendly stance was not something everyone could be graced with lest it sully the effect of the smile. “And I hope ye left the lad alone, he works for me,” The tailor added, almost as an afterthought. The boy’s fingers were small and his hands were steady and unaffected by alcohol. He was slow, but useful. He’d rather keep him around for the next little while longer, and so he eyed the woman and her pretty little slip of a daughter who was still barely in the door in a hope to read their intentions.

 

 

“We left the boy alone,” Isla sounded nearly offended at the idea of her taking the boy by force, but the lady had seemed well inclined to be forceful only hours ago. If she could even be considered a lady… The tailor had seen more light in the eyes of the working girls down by the inn; The Lady Coutts’ eyes were dead and cold in comparison, and the tailor wouldn’t put it past her to try. “For now,” she added the final two words after a dramatic breath. Their inclusion speaking volumes of her future intentions. It was a threat, poorly veiled and perfectly delivered. No, she may be no lady, but an actress, definitely.

 

 

“Then leave. I have work ta do,” The tailor threw the words gruffly out into the barely candlelit room, taking his eyes off of the mother and daughter in front of him and once more gracing the ledger with his full, squinty-eyed attention. “Close the door on the way out. If yer not here for business then yer in my way.”

 

 

“But I am here for business. Business that is of much higher import than the bottle in the backroom you are planning on ‘working on’. A proposition that can make you a very, very wealthy man,” Isla let her fingers glide over the countertop that separated her from the tailor. Her tone was seductive, yes, but the very idea of unfathomable riches even more so. Though the tailor knew his pride and honor would most likely not allow him to take any offer of hers, his intrigue still lead him to entertain the idea.

 

 

“And what, pray tell, would that business be?” The question punctuated by a greedy lick of chapped lips as his own drunken body gave away his love for money just as easily as his eyes gave away his hand at the weekly card game. Which was probably why he never won any of them.

 

 

“Give me the boy, and I will give you the world,” Lady Isla sounded confident in her offer. And yes, her social standing would allow her to reward the tailor handsomely, but the world? No one could ever hope to fulfill such a promise. Not even God or the devil himself.

 

 

The tailor’s barked laughter was loud and sharp in the small front room of his store. Hitting and spreading like the crack of a whip against stone as it bounced off of the walls and back at the small group sheltered within them.

 

 

“No,” he added, when his laughter did not seem to underline his refusal of the business arrangement with enough force.

 

 

“You could have anything you desire. Women, money, the best whiskey money can buy,” she purred, though she had already lost her audience. No mention of wenches and alcohol could regain his attention now.

 

 

“The boy stays with me, as he’s supposed ta,” his eyes met hers to punctuate his refusal; hoping she would take his no and leave him be. He still had work he had to do before he could indulge himself in his own supper.

 

 

“How about an even trade? My daughter for the lad,” The woman’s implications weighed heavily in the air, her offer was not for another apprentice and they sickened him. The tailor allowed himself a quick glance over at the young woman in question. Her blue eyes wide and terrified and her soft pale skin even paler, if such a thing were even possible. She was a lovely lass, sure, but she was also too young and too well-bred for the aging tailor.

 

 

“No means no,” the tailor shot back, his eyes leaving the girl just as he saw her shoulders relax in relief and the kiss of color return to her cheeks. “Rowena is a menace and a cold-hearted wench, but I made a deal with her, a promise many years ago ta watch over her we’an. And ye may fault me on a lot a’ things, but I keep my promises,” the tailor met Isla’s burning eyes straight on. Challenging the woman whose fury was reaching a boiling point in front of him and saying to hell with breeding and customs. 

 

 

“Very well… This was your last chance you foolish man.” All the sugar had evaporated from Lady Isla’s voice, leaving nothing but vinegar in its stead as she stepped back from the table, eyeing him angrily. “I warned you earlier, this little offer was just out of the goodness of my own heart,” her smirked smile bringing up her earlier threats again as she fished something small and round out of the folds of her dress.

 

 

Throwing the small cloth ball with a smile and a lazy arch directed at the tailor, she seemed to regain some semblance of control, though the forest fire still burned hot in her eyes. The throw was careful enough that even in his drunken state, the tailor still easily caught it. The small ball looking even smaller in his hands, with the material softer to the touch than it had looked whilst in the air.

 

 

“What is this? Are you punishing me with shoddy needlework? I’ve seen better stitching on a burlap sack,” the tailor laughed. With his eyes still completely focused on the small bag in his hands, he completely missed Maisie’s terrified look and openmouthed, silent scream as she watched him handle one of the deadliest weapons she knew of. If he had seen the fear in her eyes, or even the menacing, unladylike smirk on Isla’s features, maybe he would have realized earlier that he had signed his death warrant.

 

 

When Isla didn’t answer him, he just laughed again. His own mockery of the dangerous weapon nestled in his hands was drowning out Isla’s whispered words in a language that was clearly neither Gaelic nor English. Her poetic, nonsensical incantation was joined by the shaky voiced echo of young Maisie. As Isla turned to set her eyes upon her, she forced the young innocent child to partake in the gruesome and sinful act, as their voices grew to a volume where the tailor could no longer ignore it.

 

 

“Are ye aiming for the hangman’s noose or the witch’s fire? ‘Cause strange talk like that is what gets you sentenced as the devil’s wench,” his laughter continued; her empty, meaningless words not scaring him. He had never truly believed in witchcraft, it was just a tool to rein in strong women and a crutch for weak men. Her imagined words were no more than an annoyance: gibberish, like the buzzing of a fly around his ear. “What do you…” The tailor’s words died on his lips, as a strangled cough escaped him instead. Leaving the man wincing in pain.

 

 

Bending forward with his features painted in agony and shaded in shock and terror, he kept coughing; though he had little to no air to force out of his lungs. The first bloodstained needles that were spat out had him only staring wide-eyed at them on the still open ledger before more followed in the next coughing fit.

 

 

“What did you do to…” His words were wet with blood and punctuated by needle-kissed coughs. Additional sewing needles followed, as he coughed into a pale, shaking hand and splattered more of his lifeblood. While the tailor choked on his sewing needles, he sobbed; his pained and rasped coughs only nearly drowned out the chants of the two women in the shop. What had been his life, was now also causing his death and ripping up his throat from the inside; the same throat that had promised to take care of Fergus.

 

 

“The truth stings coming back up again, does it not, dear tailor?” Isla smirked to the more or less unresponsive man; his chest only left with a death rattle a tad more metallic than most due to the needles still left within him as he fell over, his body motionless and quickly cooling on top of his ledger and the bloodied needles. The hex bag still gripped in his hand.

 

 

“Maisie dearest, clean this mess up; leave the body with a bottle and follow me home. We cannot have Fergus hang for this.” Isla spent no more than two seconds admiring her handiwork and the man she had killed before she reached over and ripped the hex bag from the man’s hand. “He is no good to us on the wrong side of a rope, after all…”

 

 

_______________________

 

 

A female figure hid in the shadows, her black hood surrounding her dark brown curls as she watched Fergus walk home. Her red eyes stood out in sharp contrast to her surroundings. The wind picked up and rustled the leaves around them. The female waited for her boss to speak and contented herself with looking at the boy in question. He didn’t seem special by any means.

 

 

Her boss was dressed up to look like an earl, in the finest fashions money could by. No one would guess what he really was or what he was after. Like his counterpart, he worked in the shadows. He choose a large oak to hide his form from prying eyes. His voice was low and strangely melodic as he gave the order to his underling.

 

 

“Make sure Fergus sells his soul.”

 

 

The female looked back at Fergus incredulously. “But he’s just a 16 year old boy -.”

 

 

The male becomes infuriated; so angry, in fact, the tree he touches turns black. He growls at the female across from him. How dare she question him! She was lower level and he was upper management.

 

 

While he was clearly livid, his tone was curious and almost teasing. The mismatch was quite jarring. “Are you questioning me, because I would advise you to rethink that. The boy has all the makings of a proper demon. He would be quite the asset. Make him say yes!”

 

 

The female shrunk at her boss’s use of his power. She looked at the ground, trying not to stutter and just get the job done. “Yes sir. Of course, forgive me for questioning you. It is not my place.”

 

 

The male smiled a dark smile, a smile that held more malice than happiness. The female bowed to her master and started to walk behind Fergus as he walked home.

 

 

The boy looked so fragile and alone. Surely he wouldn’t be too difficult to manipulate. She could offer him anything he wanted. Who would pass that up?

 

 

Fergus had heard the footsteps behind him, knowing that someone had been following him for five minutes now. They were quite obvious about it or rather he very observant; always had been.

 

Dramatically, Fergus rushed out of the trees standing at a small crossroads on the way to his house; whirling around to face the hooded woman with a black velvet cloak. “Who are you? And why are you bloody following me?” Fergus demanded of the woman.

 

 

She laughed at his tone. “Who’s to say I’m following you. My house could be there?”

 

 

“Is it?”

 

 

“Could be?” she retorted matter-of-factly as she shrugged.

 

 

“What do you want?” Fergus asked, having enough of this conversation already.

 

 

“Quite forward for a 15-year-old boy alone, no?”

 

“Why waste time being afraid? I’ve had enough of that. Fear gets you nowhere.”

 

 

She pursed her lips, impressed by his answer. “And that’s why I’m here - to offer you a way out.”

 

 

“Excuse me?”

 

 

“Yes, dear boy. A way out of all of this,” she said with a wave of her arms open wide, to imply this meant his surroundings. “I can give you the respect and power you want and deserve. Think of me as a genie if you will; but unlike a genie, I am not mean. I don’t give you sort of what you want followed up with consequences. I give you exactly what you want.

 

 

“Do you think me daft? Genies don’t exist, save for books!”

 

 

“I said like a genie, my dear boy.” The woman flashes her red eyes at him and Fergus stares at her, nearly transfixed.

 

 

“That’s not possible. What happened to your eyes?” he asked fearfully.

 

 

She regarded Fergus with a curious look. “He was right. You’re not like the others.”

 

 

“Who was right?” Fergus asked, his eyes never leaving hers.

 

 

She chuckled at his curiosity. “That’s for another day. So what do you say? Anything you want is at your disposal all you have to do is ask.”

 

 

Fergus narrows his eyes at the woman. “What’s the fine print?”

 

 

She smirks down at him. “Clever boy. A soul, but it’s nothing to you.”

 

 

“But it’s something to you.”

 

 

“Clearly, but you’re getting literally anything you want. I’d say it’s a small price to pay.”

 

 

“I will admit I have no idea how you did that trick with your eyes, but I don’t believe in demons, witches or wishes. And if such monsters really do exist, I don’t think I’d want any part of that.”

 

 

“You will Fergus; it’s your destiny. Come find me when you’re ready, however long that may be.”

 

 

In a blink of an eye, she was gone. He looked everywhere for the strange woman but she quite literally disappeared before his eyes. In her place was a small calling card. He didn’t even look at it, he just pocketed it to later investigate further. He suddenly desperately wanted to get inside.

 

Fergus pulled his jacket tighter around him. He was sure demons and the supernatural in general didn’t exist. How could they in the real world? Yet this display of the fantastical didn’t add up. He would have to draw this confusing creature when he got home.

 

 

He passed by a tree whose leaves were slowly changing. His boots make a crunching sound on the forest floor as he stepped on dead leaves of all colors. He looked up and saw the clouds darkening as if they were harbingers of what was to come. His mind wandered to what he would sell his soul for; not that he would actually call her, but he hadn’t thrown away the card either, which befuddled him to no end.

 

 

When he reached his humble home, his “father” wasn’t there, which wasn’t too surprising considering that the tailor usually drank his dinner and would come home in a rage at 3 in the morning. Fergus welcomed the quiet.

 

 

His boots made a loud thumping sound on the groaning floorboards. So much happened today. So many confusing things and so many people that wished him ill will. Honestly, he was used it it by now, but it still shook him. Isla didn’t ring any bells. His mother hadn’t mentioned this woman and the warning from Maisie really stuck. Not to mention that creature in the woods. He missed the simplicity of his life before. The most logical explanation was that he was going mad but at 16; that would be a record. He moved slowly over to the chest to examine the book he stole from his mother. He thought he recognized a design on Maisie’s dress. He slowly opened the chest and took out the large chestnut Book of Shadows. The words were in gold inlay and there was a crimson red bookmark in the middle. He quickly peeked inside seeing that it was all written in Latin. That wasn’t a language he was taught. Gaelic, English and Scottish sure, but Latin? He quickly closed it and ran his fingers over the lettering. The strange symbol was on the book. Maisie had to be telling the truth, right?


	2. "Half the Truth"- Episode 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Written by @scheherazades-horcrux and @ajacentlee
> 
> Beta: @kdfrqqg 
> 
> Word Count: 3,761
> 
> A/N: Evil deeds and nightmares

He couldn't escape the beasts chasing him. No matter how fast he ran, they always seemed to be just one step behind, one mere leap and they would devour him.

 

Twigs and dried grass crunched under his feet, his lungs burning from the exertion of pushing himself further than his body could take. Fergus didn't know how much longer his feet and legs would hold out, but he had to keep going...had to keep moving, as the moonlight was the only thing guiding him through the dense forest.

 

Behind him, the inhuman, unearthly howls and snarls of the dogs continued to follow him, their chase showing no signs of fatigue. No signs of slowing down, their snapping jaws and razor sharp teeth inched ever closer. He pushed on, adrenaline giving him the push he needed... until he found himself face down on the ground, the wind having felt like it was knocked out of him. Pain erupted in his stomach from the impact, the culprit a half hidden stump buried underneath some overgrowth. He groaned from the pain and the knowledge that this was it. He was going to die.

 

He braced himself for the inevitable, using his arms to shield his head as best he could from the impending attack. A foul stench met his nose, the creatures were surely above him now, ready to strike.

 

His body tensed, but...

 

Nothing happened.

 

A moment longer, and he was still conscious. No pain, no being mauled to death. Tentatively he moved, slowly opening his eyes, unsure of what he would find if the beasts were still there, waiting for the chance to attack.

 

Carefully rolling to his side, Fergus rubbed his eyes, thinking they were playing some kind of trick on him as there was nothing in front or above him. No wild beasts, no hungry animals of any kind. Nothing. Just the calm, peacefulness of the forest surrounded him.

 

Maybe he was going crazy. The silent night air was almost deafening, as was the blood pumping in his ears. No baying or howling, just a gentle breeze rustling through the tree branches. Fergus let go of the breath he didn't know he was holding, and each subsequent gulp of air burned his lungs something awful. And finally after a moment, everything seemed safe and his breathing and his heart rate returned to normal. Whatever normal was anymore.

 

As Fergus got up from the ground, brushing off bits of leaves and twigs, a faint howl off in the distance grabbed his attention, rooting him to his spot. Paralyzed with fear, he stayed stock still, listening. They sounded far away, maybe he could get back to his home, back to safety.

 

He made to take off when a pair of red glowing eyes and a snout with razor sharp teeth belonging to a hellish beast stopped him in his tracks. Fear clenched his body as the beast lunged toward him, and Fergus waited for the pain of teeth tearing at his flesh, but his senses only felt something hard underneath his body.

 

He looked around, finding himself on the floor inside the safety and security of his meager bedroom in the home he lived in with the tailor, and not about to be devoured by a monster.

 

Fergus panted, wiping sweat off his forehead. "What on earth was that thing?" he wondered aloud to himself. The fangs and the glowing eyes were permanently seared into his brain. And as much as it frightened him, it was also strangely... curious.

 

The dream, or nightmare, or whatever it was, played over and over in his mind. It was so surreal, so vivid, and Fergus decided he would draw the hideous monster later, but now it was nearing daybreak and he was hungry. He was silently grateful that during his nightmare he hadn't woken his "father." He did not want to draw his ire so early in the day. Especially after his usual night of heavy drinking.

 

Fergus left his bedroom, acutely aware of how quiet the tiny house was. "Father?" He whispered loudly. The tailor, who was usually an early riser on workdays, despite drinking the night before, said nothing.

 

"Father?" Fergus called again, a little more loudly this time. He listened closely, but his ears were only met with silence. That was… odd. He checked the man's bedroom, and either the tailor went into work early or simply passed out at the shop, but one way or the other, he wasn't here. And Fergus suspected the latter would be more accurate of the drunkard, so he set out to the tailor's shop, his hunger soon forgotten.

 

By the time Fergus neared Atchinson’s shop, the sun was already over the horizon and it would only be a matter of time before the never ending line of customers started, thus beginning another monotonous day of putdowns and fake civility. And secretly, though he had a hard time admitting these recent feelings, he hoped Maisie would return.

 

But underneath these new, confusing feelings, a rather unsettling one came bubbling up, one that had nothing to do with the girl. His hand hovered just above the door knob, and for a second, he expected to hear the old man yelling at him for dawdling outside like a "daft child." But he wasn't prepared for when he opened the door, finding the old tailor slumped over the counter, an empty bottle of alcohol lying next to him.

 

The stupid git drank himself to sleep.

 

Fergus ran over, shaking the body excitedly, half expecting a beating or scolding for waking the old man. “Wake up!” he yelled, but that was before taking noticing of the pale ashen color of his skin, and how cold to the touch he was. The tailor's mouth was stained with slightly reddish streaks like he had bled or thrown up and had done a lazy attempt at cleaning himself. The boy pulled away, letting go of the body as a cold realization set in. A realization that the man his mother sold him to, the one who was supposed to teach him his family's business, and the one who thought him a mere simpleton, was now dead.

 

His head swam with every thought and emotion, a blurry pace that made no sense of the situation, and Fergus didn't know what to do. He hated the man for treating him like some poor excuse of a human, but the other part of him... well, that was the confusing part. He wasn't sure what that other part was. It wasn't love, but he wasn't evil or heartless either, so he did feel somewhat remorseful. Sad, maybe ever so slightly. The man had no family and aside from the comfort he found at the bottom of a bottle, had absolutely nothing but this business. It was rather pitiful, but as Fergus let go of the dead man, a soft metallic sound of something falling onto the floor caught his attention. Lying on the ground were two long bloody needles, and Fergus was almost certain they weren't there before. Carefully he picked them up, examining them. A weird feeling came over him, like something was watching him. 

 

The boy was unaware of the presence of another who entered the shop, until the chime on the door went off. The boy turned and gasped when he saw a woman standing there looking aghast.

 

"What have ya done?" the woman shrieked, stepping away from the boy, eyes moving from the bloody needles in his hand to Fergus, standing beside the dead tailor. "What, daft boy, have you done? Ya killed him!”

 

“What? No!” Fergus protested, stuttering a bit, “I-I didn't--”

 

“You're an evil, wicked child! Devil's spawn!” The woman bolted from the shop, her voice yelling at the top of her lungs that a murder had just taken place. And for whatever reason compelled him to do so, Fergus disposed of the needles in his pants pocket, realizing he needed to run from that place. The woman thought he had killed the tailor! The idea was preposterous!

 

He didn't know how much time he had left before an angry mob showed up at his door, but he needed to do something. And as fate would have it, the woman and Maisie walked through the door, and little Fergus had no idea how much his life was about to change.

_________________

 

Mother was an evil woman. Whatever bargaining chip or opportunity she could conjure up for things to go her way, she always took with promise. So when Maisie had been called upon in the middle of the night to clean up the mess her mother had made with the poor tailor, Maisie protested. Her mother threatened to bestow upon her a punishment much worse than death if she kept up her tirade. At such a young age being exposed to the dangers of witchcraft and malarkey, Maisie knew better than to argue further. They had spent hours in the shop making the scene look good for the plan that her mother had put into action. Blood wouldn’t stop flowing from the poor tailor. That night would be the first of many times that Maisie would cry for someone that her mother tangled with. Her mother took great pride in her magic and she always chose gruesome ways to use it. Her mother’s favorite saying, ‘It’s better to be feared than to be loved’ comes to mind.

 

Maisie had tried to warn Fergus about her mother, but he didn’t take heed. No one ever took Maisie seriously. Maybe it was on account of her age or her small stature, but they never listened. Maisie hung her head low and fluffed her dress making sure there was nothing incriminating on it. She looked straight ahead as she walked beside the woman that she honestly could say she hated with a passion. Her mother reached a hand toward her and Maisie took it revolting at the contact. “Maisie dear, I’m assured you’ll play your role?”

 

Maisie smiled up at the devil in the purple dress. “Yes mother.”

 

Maisie looked towards the pastures they passed, wishing she was among the purple ponticums. How offsetting for her mother to wear a color so beautiful. They continued their stroll until Maisie heard yelling and screaming coming from the direction of the tailor’s shop. Maisie’s stomach drops and she immediately feels ill. The tailor’s been discovered. Maisie catches the smirk rising on her mother's lips. “Hurry Maisie, we have no time to waste.”

 

Maisie lets her mother pull at her hands, and drag her behind like a common rag doll. They reach the shop’s doors and Maisie watches as her mother pushes it open slightly. Maisie looks through the crack in the door to see a scared and shocked Fergus standing behind the counter.

 

“You're an evil, wicked child! Devil's spawn!”

 

Maisie jumps as a woman she doesn’t recognize pulls the door open and bolts from the shop, leaving Isla and Maisie looking after her. Isla walks inside and her boots click on the wooden floor making a sound that occasionally haunts Maisie's dreams. Maisie walks in after her mother and stands to the side. Fergus’s eyes dance between Maisie and her mother before resting permanently on Isla. “It was you! You did this! You stupid wench!”

 

Isla tsks in annoyance at being called such a name, but remains stoic nonetheless. She moves around the counter to observe the tailor’s body and gives a whistle at the lifeless body before her. “I never took you as the killing type boy. What has the poor old tailor done this time?”

 

“Other than come in your crosshairs. Nothing at all.” Fergus backs away slowly and peers at Maisie. He pats his pockets and calms his demeanor. “I can prove it was you. I found something you left behind.”

 

“Foolish boy, who do you think the townspeople are going to believe? A common hoodlum or a woman of proper class. Plus, everyone knows you hated the old coop anyway.” Isla taps her long fingernails on the wooden counter, eyeing Fergus for an answer. “Well, speak up!”

 

Fergus walks out from behind the counter and points an accusing finger at Isla before switching his attention to Maisie. He remains silent and huffs in disgust before pointing it back at Isla. “My quarrel is with you! Leave this shop and never come back.”

 

“Fine, have it your way! If you want to hang for murder be my guest.” Isla takes Maisie’s hand and leads her to the door slowly. She turns back around and begins to say something before she closes her mouth instead.

 

Fergus stares at her trying to calm himself down to figure out what he’s going to do next. He doesn’t want to go down for something he didn’t even do. The tailor was as close to family as he had. Why would he murder the man? “What are you gaping at?!”

 

Isla shrugs nonchalantly. “You know, I could make all of this go away Fergus. I could make sure you don’t perish from your dastardly crime.”

 

“I would never go with you! Now leave!” Fergus runs towards the door and pushes them both out, slamming the door and sliding down it in exasperation. He grabs his neck and ponders what losing his breath would feel like. Dying was something he never thought he would have to think about. He still has his whole life ahead of him. He’s supposed to find his mother. He’s supposed to be something. Now, he’s going to die alone in a town with people he hates. The townspeople are not going to take it easy on him. No matter how much he plays into the simpleton role the tailor coined out for him. He stands up quickly and yanks open the door. He scans the outside of the shop until he sees Isla and Maisie a few feet away. “Wait! Come back!”

 

Isla stops dead in her tracks and turns around slowly. “You ready to talk?”

 

Fergus runs to her and drops to his knees before her. “I’ll go with you. If you can promise to make all this go away, then I’ll go with you.”

 

Isla smirks mischievously before placing her hand on Fergus’s shoulder. “I thought you would come to your senses sooner. I knew the tailor said you weren’t all there, but I thought you would have grasped the situation a lot quicker. Stop groveling and follow me.”

 

Fergus rises from the harsh terrain, keeping his head down. “I need to pack my things first. They’re sentimental. Please, grant me that much clemency.”

 

“Fine, where are your things?” Isla squints at the harsh morning sun before focusing her attention back on Fergus.

 

“They’re at the tailor's home. I never took any of my possessions with me to the shop, besides supplies to draw in my spare time.”

 

Isla rolls her eyes and points towards the shop. “We’ll be waiting for you there. Once you get back we’ll sort this murder mess out and be on our way. No funny business, and make it quick. I don’t have all day.” Isla and Maisie walk ahead of him back toward the shop.

 

Fergus starts jogging in the opposite direction towards the tailor’s small house in the woods. He breaks and snaps twigs as he goes. He’s overthinking everything, trying to stay two steps ahead of Isla. He needs to get a handle on the situation. Maybe he should play into her games until she fixes the situation, and then he should bolt to go find his mother. His mother would know what to do to keep Isla and her daughter at bay. He’s not putting much faith in his mother’s ability to help him but all the same, he hopes that the rivalry with Isla will play into his advantage. Fergus trudges through the clay like dirt, touching tree trunks as he slows down to walk the rest of the way. He makes it to the small clapboard cabin, opening the creaky door to be met with a deafening silence. He scans over the small living space, committing it to memory. He’ll never come back here again. He walks to his room and heads straight for his bed. He pulls out a satchel and lays it on the bed. He stares at it before he untwists the strings holding it closed. He pulls the heavy book out and touches the cover. Leather caresses his fingertips. He opens the book and fingers its pages, tracing the curvy script in each paragraph.

_______________________________

 

“Now, Fergus. Mommy needs you to do her a wee little favor. You see that woman over there? Put this in her pocket.” Rowena flips her red curls, handing the hex bag to Fergus.

 

“Go on. Don’t be shy. It’s a present, and everyone loves presents. Don’t you Fergus?” Rowena smiles down at the boy before patting his head. She gently coaxes the boy to move forward by giving him a push. Rowena watches as Fergus walks up to the woman and slips the tiny hex bag into the woman's purse. The woman feels it slightly but doesn’t question the movement coming from her side. Rowena whispers under her breath a tiny chant. Fergus makes his way back over to Rowena just as the woman lets out a shrill scream. Rowena smirks as the woman falls down in the middle of the shop circle surrounded by curious patrons and shopkeepers. Rowena grabs her satchel a little harder as Fergus looks back at the woman in horror.

 

“Mum, what did you do to the poor woman?” Fergus whispers. 

 

Rowena smiles down at her son before clearing her throat. “Nothing that the old hag didn’t deserve.”

 

Rowena pulls Fergus’s hand into her own before she walks away from the disaster that she caused. Fergus plays twenty one questions the entire way home, and Rowena tries not to hold on to her growing frustration of the boy. “Fergus, no more questions. When you're a wee bit older I’ll tell you everything. I want you to keep your innocence for right now. You have a choice, I didn’t.”

____________________________________

 

Fergus closes the book that he holds dear. He never knew what his mother meant about innocence until now. Magic is a terrible thing that corrupts souls and tears families apart. He never wanted any part of it once he learned what unfolded when you dabbled in the finer arts. When his mother made him pack his belongings years ago, he knew she had lost her battle with magic. He didn’t want to accept that fact, but it still made it true. He purposely stole the book in his hands from his mother, not to join her in her crusade of conjuring up evil, but to one day hand it back to her once she came looking for it. Fergus knows that his mother loves magic more than her only son, so why not use the book to get back to his mother. He kept the book in safe keeping, never glancing at its pages until a rude customer that frequented the tailor's shop grated on his nerves. He wanted to make the man suffer for being so insufferable. He looked through the pages hoping to find a spell that he could read. He retired the idea when every page that held a spell was in latin rendering the book useless to him. He had to come to terms that he wasn’t a witch, and would never be one if he could help it.

 

Fergus closes the book placing it back in the ugly satchel. He pulls the satchel over his shoulder and walks back to the living area, where a roaring fire is still going on, trying to warm the tiny cabin. He stares at the fire before he takes the last of his necessities. He exits the cabin and begins his jog back to the shop. Isla and Maisie are seated in the wooden chairs next to the shop windows. He opens the creaky door and walks in. Isla turns her head towards him. “Where the bloody hell have you been? It took you centuries to get one bag?”

 

Fergus closes the door behind him. “I was...what do we do with his body?”

 

Isla and Maisie stand up pushing back their wooden chairs. “It’s already taken care of. While you were diddle-daddling in the woods we’ve been hard at work making sure you have nothing to worry about.”

 

Fergus notices Maisie winces slightly at the words her mother spews. “Okay, I’m ready.”

 

Isla grabs Fergus hands and ushers him out of the tailor’s shop. Maisie walks behind them not saying a word. They head towards town and to what Fergus assumes is the Coutt manor. Isla squeezes his hand and Fergus gulps to keep bile from rising from his stomach. These people murdered one of the only people that showed him any hospitality, and he’s just going to go with them willingly. Fergus struggles out of Isla’s grasp. “I’m not going. How do I know you won’t do the same thing to me as you did to the tailor?”

 

Isla twists her face in fury. “You keep your voice down! I can still end things for you, dead body or none.”

 

“You're lying!” Fergus turns to walk away before being stopped by an unseen force.

 

“You're going to come with me whether you like it or not. You don’t, I'll end you.” Isla flicks her wrist and Fergus’s body turns towards her against his will. “You will do as I say.”

 

Fergus’s breath hitches as Isla’s eyes peer into his soul. “Okay! I’ll….I’ll come.”

 

Isla lowers her hand and Fergus falls forward. Isla takes Fergus’s hand into her own, pulling him up and dragging him along.

_____________________

 

“Hurry Fergus! Run faster.” Rowena pulls her son’s hand harder. They run through the busy town square, ducking and dodging behind houses. Rowena holds the bag filled with bread and fruit to her chest, making sure not to drop any.

 

“Mum, I’m tired. I can’t run anymore.”

 

Rowena pulls harder on her son's hand, looking behind her to see if the constables are still pursuing them. When she sees they’ve fallen behind she stops. “Are you hurt?”

 

Fergus cries wiping tears from his cheeks. “I want to sleep.”

 

Rowena pats her Fergus on the head. “We can sleep once we reach the town's borders. Mommy has to do this to make sure you have food in your stomach.”

 

Rowena hears yelling and sees torches dancing in the distance. “Come on Fergus!”

 

Fergus lets his little feet carry him as he’s dragged along.


End file.
